


Great Pretenders

by andthekitchensink



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Badass Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Canon Compliant, Connor Needs A Hug, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Don't post to another site!, Gift Fic, Hank Anderson is Bad at Feelings, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other, Post-Canon, Post-Peaceful Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Undercover as a Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:49:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22105084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andthekitchensink/pseuds/andthekitchensink
Summary: When Hank and Connor go undercover in a joined task force operation to crack open an illegal sex trafficking ring, things don’t go exactly as planned. All leads point to a recurring couples conference marketed towards the upper middle classes, and while it welcomes singles as well as various constellations of partnership, they need to work together. They’re former partners. They’re close friends. The best of buddies. Consummate professionals, who most certainly aren’t secretly in love with one another and convinced it would never work out, For Reasons.Problem is, they don't have the full picture. They don't know who is running the show, and are essentially going in blind. They're going to have to get creative about their detective work, while simultaneously coming to terms with some awkward truths about themselves.What could possibly go wrong?
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 25
Kudos: 121





	Great Pretenders

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ThatScottishShipper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatScottishShipper/gifts).



> This is my follower appreciation raffle prize gift fic for @Singloom! This was a joy to write, and I hope I didn't take it too far for you liking. Enjoy, and please let me know if you'd like me to change anything!
> 
> Bonus note: If you don't already follow me on Twitter Jericho, feel free to come on over and say hi! My username is @NdePlume1 :D

* * *

As assignments went this was one for the books, far as Lieutenant Hank Anderson was concerned. Not even 48 hours ago, he’d sat in the conference room, reviewing evidence pertaining to what some members of the DPD called the biggest FUBAR of the decade. Since the ban on android sex clubs, there had been a marked rise of sex related crimes all over the state of Michigan. It was a nasty operation, but sadly not a new one, where kidnappings in foreign countries turned innocent people into prostitutes in the good ol’ U S of A - out in the streets, and the stripper clubs, American escort clubs. Vice was all over it, working alongside Major Crimes, which made it enough of a mess. Joint operations could run smoothly on a good day, but they rarely went entirely without friction. Then, of course, one might wonder who thought of the great idea to involve Homicide when they didn’t have anyone turning up dead (and thank God for small favors). Fowler, that’s who.

Long story short, it was a matter of resources - the DPD’s Central Station was the only one with access to an RK model investigative unit. ‘Had access to’ being the operative part of the phrase, as in Lieutenant Hank Anderson and he were friends, and had stayed in contact since the android revolution just over a month ago. It fell on Anderson to get Connor on board for an undercover op. With the stakes being what they were, Connor didn’t hesitate to offer his entire catalogue of skill sets - just like Hank knew he would. Even before he broke free of his presets, or whatever the PC term was, if there even was one, he’d been a good kid. An at times annoying, know-it-all (literally, because he knew  _ everything _ ), hardass, empathetic little shit with the most ridiculous puppy dog-fluttery lashes, big brown pools for eyes Hank had ever seen. Of course he’d want to help crack the case.

Only problem was, Hank hadn’t exactly planned on being ordered to go undercover alongside the guy. Posing as his  _ partner _ partner. As in, romantic, touchy-feely, obviously  _ in love _ partner. It wasn’t a problem. He’d done similar undercover work before. Some thirty years ago, or so. No problem, no worries, he could fake it like a champ. But that was a long time ago, and he’d never gone undercover with anyone for whom he actually felt...fluttery in the chest cavity, so to speak. But he did with Connor. Ever since that week back in early November, every time they met he felt more like the guy he used to be, before the depression and the games of Russian roulette and drinking himself to an early grave one beer at a time. It’d only gotten worse once he figured out how to make Connor smile - or perhaps that should be  _ when Connor figured out how to smile _ , for real. He was a goner. Hook, line and sinker. Completely screwed.

Kinda fitting, considering the object of his misplaced affections was someone who showed zero interest in romance. But then, you know. Hank’d be a fool to assume an android designed to be an amicable T-1000 would ever be interested in anything like a relationship viewed through a human lens. Hank didn’t even know if androids kissed - and he very much wasn’t a fool.

###  Friday

And here they were. All the leads pointed to the Seaside Hotel, in the more affluent part of Detroit, to a couples therapy-slash-conference called ‘Love Your Love Life’. It was open to couples as well as singles, as a catch-all class to work miracles on you, as a partner, and your relationship as a whole, no matter the configuration. They had seminars for all kinds of issues, real or imaginary. Marketed as a weekend of romance and self-improvement, the conference itself was just as much their target as the hotel staff. Someone was on the scene, behind the curtain, pulling all the strings, laundering money and/or setting people up with the imported sex workers. It had to be one of the organizers, or staff; likely management, but not necessarily. The glorified couples therapy was a handy excuse to get there fast, to snoop all over the hotel, and find out who was the mystery broker of human goods. They’d go in, find evidence, report back, and Vice would take over from there. The event was not somewhere Hank would ever have set foot in his entire life, outside of work, but duty called, and he responded as best he could. He shaved, left all his more flamboyantly patterned shirts at home, and inhabited the more sober, somber life of one Henry Ackers, the SO (as in Significantly Older partner) of one Connor Stern.

Connor, who looked just like any other twenty-something going on thirty, dressed in jeans and t-shirts and whatever that knitted thing was supposed to be, looking like a million bucks. Hair all wavy, almost curly but not quite, the way that made your fingers itch to reach out and touch. No LED, for obvious reasons. While no one outside the force knew what the RK model looked like, everyone recognized an android by the diode at its temple - even if most androids had got rid of the thing by now, that assumption lingered in people’s minds. LED, android. No LED, human. The human brain was ridiculously simple, at times, but it served their purpose.

They checked into their room, put away their things, and Hank had already determined he was going to sleep on the couch. Not in the king size bed. Not even to keep up appearances. Never gonna happen. Connor could take the bed, even if he insisted on standing by in the corner, or whatever. He’d never known him to actually sleep.

Connor was in the bathroom setting out razors and toothbrushes, when suddenly his voice came drifting into the other room. “Hank?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you absolutely have to shave?”

“Yup.”

Connor then poked his head out the door, leveling Hank with an assessing look. “Why?”

Hank shrugged, ignoring the fluffy, fuzzy twinges in the general vicinity of his heart. “It’ll grow back. And it makes me look completely different.” He waited for the other shoe to drop. He knew there was one, because he recognized that frown line between Connor’s eyebrows.

“You do not. You look exactly the same! You haven’t changed your bone structure, H--...”

Hank tried not to grin, and failed at the sight of Connor’s deepening frown.

“You’re having fun at my expense.”

“Just a bit. Listen,  _ honey _ , far as us mere mortals can tell, I  _ do _ look completely different. That’s all that matters. I’m not trying to stand out, I’m trying to blend in.”

Connor stepped out of the bathroom, safety razor in one hand, shaving gel can in the other; Hank could see those cogs whirring, even without the LED. “You have a point. Ninety-two point five percent of the males present and in your age group are clean shaven, possibly to attempt a more youthful appearance in order to attract younger mates.”

When he put it that way, Hank didn’t feel all that smug about his clever disguise anymore. More like an old perv. “See?” He said, in a wry attempt to joke it off, and started flipping through the hotel’s informational folder. “I’ll fit right in.”

“Don’t forget the earwig,” said Connor, helpful and teasing at the same time.

Everyone and their auntie would mistake it for a hearing aid. Well. Hank knew for a fact there were worse things in life than being mistaken for being hard of hearing. His mother had had a hearing deficiency most of her life, and she would have killed for something this fancy. At least this way, Connor could talk to him without anyone being the wiser, and Fowler could keep them both updated without delay.

“They had to make it look like the most garish one on the market, did they?”

“It’s not garish,  _ darling _ ,” Connor countered, coming out with the small case. “This is the 21st century. Hearing aids are incredible pieces of engineering and design. They’re statement pieces, not signs of weakness.”

Hank smirked. “Why’s everyone trying to drag me into the 2030s? And now, you? I’m hurt, Connor. Let me pretend I’m a dinosaur just a few more years?”

Connor arched his eyebrow, and handed the case over to Hank, to the point of shoving it into his hand, saying, “Stop that, it’s self-deprecating. This is a beautiful accessory as much as a tool, and you’re going to  _ own it _ . Right? That’s the correct term?”

“Own it. Right,” Hank said, taken aback by the sheer conviction in Connor’s eyes. Who would’ve thought it would take an android to rebuild his self-confidence from the ground up.

***

The seminar itself started with a one hour keynote speech about the building blocks of a functioning relationship - a topic that both struck Hank as incredibly boring and hitting a bit too close to home. It was easier to pretend you were perfectly happy living on your own when you weren’t being bombarded with helpful advice on how to build a relationship from the ground up. What’s worse, Connor was soaking it all up like a sponge, even going so far as to take notes on his tablet. Hank knew it was all an act, to amp up the Real Human(™) vibes, but he couldn’t help but find it oddly endearing. Even if it was all for show, it spoke of Connor’s dedication to the task at hand. Maybe no one present would describe them as a lovey-dovey couple, but no one could question Connor’s investment from the way he was tapping away at the touch screen. He even proved himself once the Q&A section came along, much to Hank’s awkward delight.

“Yes? The young man in the gray cardigan,” keynote speaker Jay McElroy said, and a drone hovering above the audience to act as a microphone settled neatly above Connor.

“Thank you for a very engaging speech,” said Connor, immediately getting into the good graces of the speaker. He could flatter without gushing, and he was still very much about getting to the point. “My name is Connor. I have two questions: first, I was wondering why you don’t list financial equality, but talk of ‘financial fairness’ in your presentation. Second, you’re the first couples therapist I’ve come across to leave out sex as a vital component of a healthy relationship. What’s your view on that?”

Hank tried not to smile, but he couldn’t resist the insistent tugging at his mouth. Trust Connor to go for the metaphorical kill, right away. McElroy didn’t seem phased, however. They’d probably heard it all before, or they wouldn’t be a keynote speaker at an event like this. They explained that with the current economic climate, it was getting increasingly difficult to even begin having a conversation about economic equality, but as long as a couple could sustain economic stability and fairness in distribution of means, as in, using money in a way that fulfilled the tenets of the section on Cooperation, a relationship could still thrive. Furthermore, they said sex was left out, because it wasn’t actually a requirement for a healthy relationship. While it was true that many couples would benefit from sexual intimacy, it was also true that an increasing number of the global population was coming out as some degree of asexual. Even in relationships where all participants were sexual, it was more than common for such couples to have long periods of celibacy where none involved felt bad about it, physically, emotionally or psychologically. McElroy added that, if anything, it’s societal pressure that makes people feel bad about not having sex, not the actual absence of sexual intimacy.

Hank looked at Connor from the corner of his eye, and he didn’t need a telltale LED to know he was satisfied with the answer. Those eyebrows lifted in eager attention, the hint of a smile to his lips… Hank, on the other hand, didn’t really know what to think - except that he was right in not wanting to assume an android would view relationships through an entirely human lens. In any case, Connor had just provided them with an official reason for being here, and a plausible excuse for why they weren’t being all touchy-feely,  _ demonstrative _ about being together. Connor didn’t have an income to speak of, which they didn’t even need to lie about, what with the state of the struggling android rights movement; and Hank didn’t have much of a libido, these days. He wouldn’t have to lie about  _ that one _ , either.

***

From Connor’s point of view, this was right up there among the most exhilarating things he’d ever done. Not, perhaps, the task at hand - to investigate was his main function - but to be positively floating in a sea of human experience, to be in a setting where he could ask the kinds of questions he’d never ask anyone outside this context. You could execute a thousand reference searches on the topic of relationships, you could learn a great deal from them (he certainly had), but there was something immeasurably valuable about listening in on actual, real life partners, and then add the data to his own schematic diagrams. To be able to ask experts their views on things, and no one thinking he’s picked the wrong time or asked the wrong person. None of that. Here, he felt more free than ever to be a walking, talking question mark. He just...had to pace himself. Sort through the more vital queries first: like economic equality, that had occupied his thought processes a great deal over the past thirty-seven days. Like the importance of sex, as in being different from non-sexual intimacy. That was a puzzle: why humans insisted there was a difference between non-sexual physical intimacy and physical intimacy of the sexual kind. That, however, was a question he wasn’t ready or willing to ask just yet. Not only for what it would imply about his and Hank’s makebelieve status as a couple, but for what it would tell Hank about his internal processing.

Still. He thrived on the endless possibilities. He’d never been around so many humans at the same time before: this would be an excellent opportunity to fine tune his understanding of human body language and micro-mimicry and gestures, word choices, implicit statements, tone. He couldn’t possibly be the perfect partner for Hank if he didn’t understand jokes, for instance, or the full range of the Meaningful Looks that were consistently referenced in human literature. ‘Knowing’ looks, also - and simply how to initiate things. He could execute software prompts at a million blips per second, but he didn’t have a clue how to get closer to Hank without embarrassing him. To think placing one’s hand on someone’s body was a minefield of socially unacceptable displays of affection.

...but first he had to figure out if it was a calculated risk he was willing to take. Even if, going by the visual aid from the keynote speech (a wheel of misfortune, Hank called it) they ticked almost all the boxes of a healthy relationship - Respect at the core of it, branching off into categories and subcategories: Trust, Accountability, Safety, Honesty, Support, Cooperation - he still wasn’t convinced he was reading Hank correctly. It was entirely too likely (73.43%, to be exact) that they were just...close friends.

“Connor, what the Hell are you doing in there - rearranging your components? We’re gonna be late for dinner!”

Connor lifted his head, and his mirror image looked back at him from the depths of the bathroom mirror. It looked as conflicted as he felt. Hank was teetering dangerously close to the line called ‘hangry’, and the dinner would be an excellent opportunity to scope out the place. Or, more likely, an excellent way to watch Hank through his 3D grid, waiting for an encryption key to magically appear and unlock his code.

“I’m trying out hairstyles, Hank. I have to look the part, don’t I?” It was a blatant lie, but it was very easy to tell with the door closed and Hank in the other room.

Hank’s voice came drifting through the door again, closer this time. “You’re the prettiest guy out there already, I’m kinda thinking you don’t need a new hairstyle. Now get outta there, I’m  _ starving _ .”

His thirium pump regulator made a strange little whirring noise, decreasing the beat-to-beat time period of his heart. It wasn’t the first time anyone had called him pretty (insulting, derogatory, predatory in the most ignorant way, sure), but it was the first time Hank said it - and he very likely meant it, too. In a friendly capacity...most likely.

***

Dinner turned out to be an elaborate affair, which was to be expected when participants of the couples’ conference paid top dollar. Elaborate, and semi-formal, with white table cloths on every table, holiday appropriate decorations in every corner of the room. Hank remarked as they walked in, that he’d never seen as many tacky Christmas trees in one place. Connor wouldn’t have called them tacky, however. He quite enjoyed the look of all the reds and golds, all the warm, glowing lights, though he could empathize with his partner. Christmas, he surmised, was a tough time of year for the lieutenant. He suspected, and Hank had hinted as much, that everything past August was an uphill climb that didn’t get any easier. Him and his son’s birthdays, followed by the anniversary of Cole’s death, then Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas in quick succession. And now, this year, the android revolution to top it all off. Everything was up in the air, for everyone. Maybe the decorations was a way for human society to pretend like everything was going to be okay, but it didn’t really matter to Connor if that were the case. He didn’t mind at all. They were beautiful, and sparkly, and completely over the top, and he secretly loved it.

They were just a week away from Christmas, and Connor didn’t know if he should stifle his own, perplexing excitement, or ask Hank if he had any plans for next weekend. Probably not, judging by how he worked straight through Thanksgiving. But, they could watch the game. Any game. He could bring a pizza, or falafel. Hank liked falafel…

“Hey, Connor?”

He turned his head, eyes refocusing on the real life object of his somewhat troubled computing. “Yes, darling?” It was easy for him, being able to substitute ‘darling’ for all instances where he would use ‘Lieutenant’ or ‘Hank’. His partner, whether he was surprised or not, didn’t miss a beat.

“Something on your mind? You zoned out a bit, there.”

Hank’s way of asking for updates, of course. “Nothing immediately relevant, no,” he said, as waiters brought in plate after plate of food. It smelled nice, but Connor wondered how much of it he could swallow before having to find a restroom and spit it all out. It seemed like such a waste of food.

Everyone around them perked up at the promise of sustenance, not least of all Hank, whose stomach gave a timely growl. “Nothing immediately relevant,” Hank echoed back at him, looking very bright eyed and pleased. “My big, fat a--ft.”

The waiter set down their plates, giving them both a polite smile despite Hank’s near tumble into the land of the dreaded faux pas.

“That’s clever,” Connor told him, actually quite delighted. By the look of Hank’s face, it wasn’t a deliberate word game, but Connor didn’t mind. He was more than happy to elucidate.

“Aft, as in near or at the rear end of a nautical vessel?”

Hank’s eyebrows asked for further explanation. He really needed to eat more if he hadn’t figured it out already - but that was beside the point. Connor was more than happy to deliver the punchline. “Stern? The rear end of a nautical vessel is called the stern.”

Hank’s face twisted into something indecipherable, and he groaned. “You really have the weirdest sense of humor…”

_ Yes _ , thought Connor. He was never going to win Hank’s affections if he couldn’t even decipher a joke that never was, let alone tell one. But the more pressing matter stared up at him from the plate. A very nice bowl of Asian fusion grilled squid set atop a variety of very finely shredded vegetables, with vegetable tempura on the side, and steamed coconut buns. It was the healthiest item on the menu, which was the only reason he chose it. It hadn’t occurred to him at the time that he would have to mimic chewing.

“What’s that, green papaya salad?”

Connor looked up, an idea sparking at the forefront of his mind palace. Next to Hank’s steak and fries, served with berbere bearnaise sauce and roasted tomatoes, all Connor could see was a win-win. “Would you like to try some? How often do we get to stay at a five star hotel, eat like this?”

Hank knew what he was doing, but from the hint of a smile, he was more than happy to play along with Connor’s game of giving away enough food off his plate to pass by unnoticed. Connor gave him the sweetest smile, speared a nice, tender, crisp piece of tempura, and held it out for Hank across the table. Feed each other tasty morsels? That’s a thing lovers do... He could do this. Especially when Hank’s eyes lit up with...pleasure(?). Especially when he was suddenly grunting around a mouthful of (apparently) delicious food, humming non-verbal compliments to the chef. It was fascinating, watching Hank eat, without the beard obscuring the movements of his jaw. Absolutely fascinating. He could  _ definitely _ do this.

***

Two half empty plates was all Hank could manage (or dared) before throwing in the proverbial towel, but two half empty plates looked better than one scraped clean and one virtually untouched. He could’ve cleaned off both of them, easy, but he didn’t want to spend the rest of the evening in a food coma. Connor’s plan was a success.

Now, the crux of the matter was, they couldn’t just sit around and establish their cover. They had to mingle, and Connor needed to get facial scans of the temp staff. Easiest way to do that was to hack into the closed circuit CCTV scattered about the hotel, but, as Connor told him over their commlink, he’d rather get within range of the server room. The only time he’d hacked a live feed CCTV camera was at CyberLife Tower, and he’d had no other choice. It wasn’t ideal, because he didn’t have the time. This time, they had until Sunday morning.

“Wanna go snoop?” Hank asked under his breath. Connor inclined his chin.

“ _ Based on the layout and original blueprints, I have an idea where the server room is. _ ”

“Meet you here in fifteen?”

“ _ Ten. I don’t find it in ten minutes, I’m circling back to avoid suspicion _ .”

“You’re the expert.”

Their eyes met across the candlelights, and they shared confident smiles. “ _ Yes, _ ” said Connor, directly into Hank’s earwig. “ _ I am. _ ”

***

It was the longest ten minutes of Hank’s 53 years of life, even whiling away the time chatting with the locals, it was the  _ longest fucking minutes of his entire goddamn life _ . Not because he didn’t trust Connor could take care of himself, or doubted his competency, but because for all the intel they had on the operation, they were going in blind. They could be dealing with anything, here - and in Hank’s experience, the leap from viewing people as merchandise to viewing them as garbage to be disposed of wasn’t all that big. Someone got wind of Connor’s stealthing around the place, he could get in trouble. The entire operation could be blown, setting several departments back months, undoing the hard work of countless members of the force.

“You seem like such a nice man, Henry,” said one of the aforementioned locals, a Ms Wells, one of a handful of permanent residents of the hotel, who’d dropped by the old ballroom for a bit of gossip.

“Thank you,” said Hank, just waiting for a sign to go after his partner. “I do try.”

“It’s presumptuous of me to even ask, but, you know how it is these days, all the young people, why, they’re so focused on their careers and plain getting by that they forget all about finding someone nice to settle down with…”

And that was his cue, right there. He’d heard her yapping on about her nieces and nephews all night, playing matchmaker with the unsuspecting family members of perfect strangers. And the single people at the conference… No one was out of bounds, it seemed. “Sorry, Ms Wells, it’s just me and Connor. Everyone else lives out of state. Will you excuse me? It was lovely meeting you.”

She made some remark about not letting a handsome young man like that out of sight, which made Hank both feel slightly affronted, and strangely gratified. At least there was one person in the world who thought they made a believable couple. But she also seemed to imply Connor wouldn’t stick around a guy like him (not young or handsome?). Ugh. He really did prefer the company of his dog at times like these.

Off he went, in search of his pretend lover, aided by the tiny blip on his cell phone that tracked Connor’s cufflinks, and it wasn’t long before he found him in one of the long, winding corridors at the back of the hotel. Not technically out of bounds for guests, but enough to raise eyebrows if they were caught lurking. Especially right outside a very sturdy looking door marked STAFF ONLY.

“Whatever happened to ten minutes, Con?”

The frown that his partner leveled him with was one to rival all others, and his eyes were both filled with frustration and that age old  _ just five more minutes _ that was universal to humans. Hank bit the inside of his lip to stop himself from grinning, but Connor could sure look like a sulking five-year-old at times.

“ _ It’s right  _ **_here_ ** ,” Connor told him over their commlink, pointing at the CCTV camera mounted riiiight above him. It was pointed straight at the door - and Connor was right about the risk of jamming the system. It was an unnecessary one, when there were other options - which Connor went on to inform him. “ _ I’m just within range of the server, I just need another 23 seconds, and I’m in. _ ”

“Uhuh. I’m guessing circling back to our room wasn’t an option?” Hank had to choose his words, what with being right in the scope of the camera. But just before Connor could gripe at him, there was the sound of heavy, brisk footsteps coming their way. Work Boots, by the sound of it. Thick soles, sturdy, and there was nowhere to hide. They had to act fast, but what were their options? Come up with a load of nonsense, bullshit their way out of there?

There was no time, the footsteps drew closer and closer. Whoever it was would round the corner in a matter of seconds-- But then...Connor stopped staring into his eyes, searching for answers, and instead wrapped his arms around his back, pulling him in for a kiss.

A kiss. Like something out of a cheesy romcom,  _ ooh, quick, kiss me! _ except it wasn’t like that at all. Their lips met, pressing together, and everything just seemed to slide into place - every last little thing that had been nagging at him, all his pet peeves, all his worries, all his insecurities: gone with the soft brushing of Connor’s mouth moving with his. Connor’s hands, moving up his back, pulling him in closer, fingers brushing over old scars, over his spine, coming up to disappear into his hair. He’d forgotten all about what it felt like to have someone run their fingers through his hair. It was electric. It tingled in ways that should be perfectly illegal, and every little taste of Connor’s lips, every tickling of his tongue went right to his dick.

His libido, presumed dead for years now, sure had the worst possible timing.

Behind them, that someone wearing those work boots cleared their throat. Pointedly - but that didn’t stop Connor, who brought his wicked hands around Hank’s front. Dragging them across his chest, up, down, smooth strokes, and up his neck, to cup his cheeks, and the crisp, scratchy sound...of Connor’s fingers...moving over Hank’s stubble…

“Mmmn…” did absolutely nothing about his hardon, embarrassing but fitting though it was.

“Gentlemen?”

Then, and only then, did Connor move away, for a given value of ‘move’ and ‘away’. His teeth tugged gently at Hank’s bottom lip, and let them go with the tiniest little grin, and all Hank could think was that the devil was in the details. Connor looked like a smug-- woodland creature, like a faun that’s just stepped into a clearing, revealing itself, and he turned that look on the poor security guard.

“Sorry. We were just...admiring the architecture.”

Hank cleared his throat, very nearly terrified of looking over his shoulder at the poor woman. She sounded young, which technically didn’t make a lick of difference, but it hit him then that even if she were well into her twenties,  _ he _ was at least thirty years older, and he should know better than to behave like a teenager. Cover or no cover.

“It’s a prime example of the time period,” said the security guard, as if this wasn’t the first time she’d come across people behaving like teenagers in the back corridors. It very like wasn’t. “But I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.”

They went their separate ways, Hank’s face on fire and Connor seeming completely unaffected by the charade. “Tell me you got the thing,” Hank ground out between his teeth, and Connor made things worse by sliding his hand into the crook of Hank’s elbow.

“Got it.” He beamed up at Hank, excited about a job well done, and getting away with it. For all outwards appearances, it was just another day at the office. Connor was perfectly in-character, one hundred percent focused on the job. Not like that thing back there meant anything.

Hank supposed it wasn’t all bad. Connor did his bit with the data thing, and Hank finally had the answer to one of his questions: androids could kiss. Expertly. Like any other exec task...

***

They returned to their hotel room, to keep Fowler and the others up to date on their progress. Connor provided them with all relevant intel, while Hank filled in his own observations. It wasn’t until after, when Hank announced he was ‘gonna grab a shower’ and barely even looked his way, that Connor got the distinct impression something was wrong. Hank wasn’t the loud, boisterous type, but this was a far cry from his usual self. He was quiet, but never muted; always animated, never standing perfectly still, always full of a kind of energy that couldn’t be ignored. Even when he was quiet, just looking at you, or watching the game. This was quiet in an alarming way. Silent as the grave.

Any excitement he’d felt about successfully initiating something as enormous as a kiss (even if it  _ was technically _ a way to stall for time) evaporated with the realization that he’d crossed a line. He’d miscalculated, overstepped his boundaries. Hank was embarrassed - but what for? Physical responses were to be expected: apply stimulus, the body responds accordingly. Accelerated heartbeat, shortness of breath, blood rushing to the surface of the skin, goosebumps, tight nipples, erection… He’d found it incredibly gratifying. Exhilarating. Sparks flying everywhere inside of him - and when they pulled away, Hank was breathtaking. Face flushed, lips ever so slightly swollen, and his eyes dark with...something that was less and less likely to be desire, looking back.

He ran the scene over in his mind palace, pausing, changing the perspective, resuming playback, rewinding, over and over again. He came to the same conclusion every single time: a physical response to sexual stimulation does not equal attraction...or consent.

By the time Hank came out of the shower, already dressed in sweatpants and an old rock t-shirt, Connor sat in one of the small armchairs by the window, perfect apology at the ready.

“Hank?”

“Yeah?” said Hank, eyes downcast as he grabbed one of the pillows from the bed and tossed it on the couch at the foot of the bed.

“I made a gross error of judgement earlier. I violated your personal integrity and our friendship. I took advantage-- of you, of the situation, with no regard to--”

“Save it, Connor. It’s fine. It was just a kiss, not like the world ended.”

Connor opened his mouth to speak, to further press the issue, but his carefully preconstructed script fell away. Hank still wasn’t looking at him, rather he was facing away, getting out the spare blanket from the closet.

“I didn’t mean to make things awkward between us.”

***

Hank sighed, hugging the blanket to his chest. It was soft, exquisite, made for a perfect, makeshift shield as he turned around to face his partner. Time to regain their equilibrium, or whatever. Back to square one, or status quo, because Connor looked like a lost kid in that chair, all precocious and-- perfect posture, perfectly out of his depth. This was new for both of them, this strange, weighted tension. Connor had probably never experienced anything like it before, and was doing his best to analyze it, understand it. He was still learning. For all he knew about infiltration and forensics, combat, he still had a ways to go when it came to social interaction. He sat down on the couch, blanket on his lap and his arms resting on top. How in the world do you smooth things over with the android of your (delusional) dreams? How to explain away… everything?

“I said it’s fine, I mean it. It’s just…” He shrugged, struggling to make himself look Connor in the eye. “It’s been a long time since someone kissed me like that. I wasn’t exactly prepared for...how I’d...react. That’s the only thing I’m awkward about, alright? You got us out of a tight spot when I was too busy trying to think of what to do, so… Credit’s yours.”

“Oh.” Connor nodded, but his eyes were far too bright and attentive to fool Hank that this was the end of the discussion.

“Your physiological responses are nothing to be embarrassed about, Hank. If anything, they show you’re in perfect condition. They’re a perfectly natural, normal response to stimulation.”

It was possibly the last thing he wanted to hear right now, but he couldn’t get cranky about that godawful attempt at cheering him up. Connor was just trying to help - and in so doing, gave Hank another insight into the android lens. Of course, Connor wasn’t a companion model (and thank peaches for that). Of course he’d view something like this as cause and effect. Kiss Hank = Hank gets boner (which is in keeping with cover identities). He probably didn’t have one single romantic circuit in his entire casing.

“I know,” he told Connor, who gave him an uncertain smile. “That’s all it was. Just wasn’t ready for you to push all my buttons. It’s fine. Good to know I still got it in me, right?”

He watched as Connor’s smile grew more confident, his own heart sinking all the while. “Right!”

###  Saturday

Morning came with Connor messing up the bed to make it appear as if they’d both slept in it, rather than him lying on top of the sheets staring at the ceiling. Hank showered, shaved and got dressed for the day. They would split up, each taking a separate seminar, touch base at lunchtime, and repeat the process over the afternoon. Armed with Connor’s (not entirely legally obtained) intel, they were one step closer to figuring this whole thing out. Now, they had persons of interest, and they could keep a close eye on their movements by tracking their keycards and checking it against surveillance. First up, the keynote speaker themselves, Jay McElroy, who seemed legit on paper, but had invested a lot of money in the Love Your Lovelife circus. They were not just a keynote speaker, but a key individual in the organization. Question was, why hide it? And if they were hiding something that innocuous, they could be hiding something else. They were chic, sleek, and quite possibly too smart for their own good.

Secondly, there was the poster boy for the operation, Sean Ellis. He was the lexical definition of the boy next door all growed up and beefed up. Good old-fashioned Americana, pearly whites and a California tan.

Hank wasn’t sure he liked either of them for the perpetrator, but Connor had one of his incredibly well calculated hunches that Hank had learned to trust. If their digital footprints didn’t add up, then they didn’t add up, and they’d work with that until they knew differently. They worked their separate targets, Connor scoped out Ellis, and Hank kept a closer eye on McElroy. There were no red flags, far as Hank was concerned - their movements checked out, and from the CCTV, they seemed to be getting on well with the crowd. It was tricky keeping track of them when they weren’t participating in the same seminar, and McElroy was one of the Big Name guests at the event. They moved from conference room to conference room, making nice with the paying guests. As for Ellis, he’d stayed in the same conference room all morning. Making nice with Connor, flirting up a storm, and Connor just seemed to gobble it up like a starving man…

***

It could be argued that Connor had the easier task of the two of them, in that he didn’t have any trouble at all getting close to his target. In fact, Ellis came to him almost instantly. First thing he did after Connor found a seat was ask if the one next to him was taken - it obviously wasn’t, which Connor told him. Ellis took a seat, and over the course of the combined seminar and workshop, he suggested they team up, and then proceeded to talk about any number of things. It suited Connor perfectly, not only because he had a background story at the ready, and for every question he answered, Ellis seemed more than happy to answer one of his. Quid pro quo. They talked about the weather, and Ellis’s successful business venture, his passion for bringing people together, how he truly believed everyone could have a shot at finding happiness if they just had the right tools at their disposal.

“I couldn’t help but notice your guy,” Ellis said, once he was done inflating his own ego; Connor tilted his head, arching his eyebrows in silent query.

“Your partner? You know...the older guy. Tall, stocky. Shaved off his beard to minimize the age difference. Huh?”

And just like that, Connor had a bad feeling about the edge to Ellis’s smile. Nevertheless, he had to play along, see where this was going. “My Henry, yes. Why do you think he had a beard?”

“Well!” Exclaimed Ellis, with a big, white grin like the big, bad wolf. “They all do, don’t they? I’ve seen it all too often, with his age group. The beard’s ‘distinguishing’ and all, up to a point, and then they all get rid of it in a fit of vanity. Damn millennials, right? So predictable. How old is he, anyway?”

Connor couldn’t believe his audio processors, or his visual input. Ellis had to be flirting, which seemed counterintuitive with how insulted Connor felt. Hank was  _ beautiful _ , and tangible, and solid, and strong, both physically and otherwise, and he was intelligent, witty, loyal to a fault! He was a good man, the best of them all: and he was old enough that Connor didn’t want to contemplate his life expectancy for knowing how many years he had left with him - and this amateur implied Connor had made a bad choice in partners for something so incredibly irrelevant as  _ age _ ? He wondered what was the socially acceptable response:

[O] Slam that surgically enhanced face into the table and be done with it

[X] Excuse himself before he does something he’ll regret

He opted for something in between, giving Ellis one of his most polite smiles. “Mr Ellis. Sean... I suggest you change the tune to something other than charmingly insulting the love of my life, or I’ll be forced to ruin your boringly perfect face.”

***

Come lunchtime, the last person Hank wanted to see was his partner, who, for whatever reason, was delayed. He didn’t want to consider the reason why, because it played into his own insecurities. He was too old to be antsy about his own age, really. He’d had a massive crisis at the age of eighteen, and never looked back since. He didn’t notice turning thirty, the way some people did. He didn’t break a sweat turning forty, and he’d certainly not had any kind of midlife crisis at fifty. Not even after what happened with Cole. Age was just a number that kept ticking upwards, and he was happy to be alive. He hadn’t been happy the past three years, but things were changing now.

But...facts were facts. As well as he and Connor got along, he was very obviously not interested in pursuing anything other than friendship. Not with  _ him _ , anyways. And watching him with that guy, Ellis, made Hank wonder if maybe Connor preferred someone a bit less weathered and worn. Someone more immediately  _ aesthetic _ . Symmetry, and shit.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Hank looked up, surprised to see a familiar face. Surprised, and not entirely pleased. “Ms Wells. Hi. Lunchtime, huh?”

“It’s a necessary evil, I always say. Just when you’re getting into the flow of things, you have to stop and refuel.” She sat down at his table, bright brown eyes looking at him expectantly. “Go on. Wanna tell me what’s on your mind? I’m an excellent listener, once I shut up about my nieces and nephews.”

Lady wasn’t completely unaware, at least. Hank grinned, despite himself. “That was a bit intense, yeah.”

“It won’t happen again. It’s just, these weekends? They come along, and every single time I think, this is it. I’ll find my babies a date, at the very least!”

“How’s it working out for you?”

“Not. At. All.”

***

Words have power. Two hours ago, Connor would have only conceded the fact to a certain degree. He was there for the deviant revolution, he  _ knew _ first hand how words could sway an entire nation. He’d listened to Markus countless times since that night he himself chose to deviate, and yes. Words had power.

But he hadn’t realized that there was more to it than being the recipient of a message, that sometimes words didn’t have meaning until you spoke them out loud, and then everything made sense. He told Ellis Hank was the love of his life, and suddenly everything,  _ but everything _ , slotted into place. He’d loved him for most of his life, relatively short though it was. He didn’t just feel affection (he did), or wanted to spend more time with him (he did), didn’t just want to learn how to decipher people to better read  _ him  _ (he did) - but he would die for him, come back to life for him, save him from insanity and loneliness, he would protect him (if he let him, if he needed protection), he would defend him, cherish him. Forever.

He had to tell him. Worst case scenario, Hank wasn’t on the same wavelength with him, but then at least he would know. He should know, he deserved to know. They could remain friends, because Hank was a good guy, the best of them, and he wouldn’t push him away for an overabundance of emotion.

And even if Hank didn’t feel the same way, maybe he would? Some day? Love wasn’t always immediate, some humans needed years to fall in love.

His thirium pump regulator whirred in his torso, going into overdrive. He had to tell him, had to just tell him the seminar was running behind a bit, so he connected to Hank’s earwig, fully prepared for Hank’s voice to fill his mind palace.

It did. It just didn’t say  _ What’s taking you so long _ . It laughed, in that soft, quiet belly laugh that Connor loved. He was talking to someone, and hadn’t heard their connection going online with a  _ blip _ .

_ “No, no, are you kidding me? I’m too old for that shit, pardon my lingo.” _

_ “Too old for love?” _ A woman’s voice shot back at him, Hank’s earwig picking up her voice loud at clear. Connor ran a voice recognition check. Ms Erin Wells, 47. Pretty, by the look of her photo ID. Symmetrical features, intelligent eyes.  _ “You should tell your young boyfriend before he gets too invested.” _

_ “Connor, too invested? Nah.” _ Hank sighed - the sounds of clinking glasses and cutlery on fine porcelain in the background. He was in the restaurant.  _ “I’m just saying, I don’t mind being in a relationship, but I’m perfectly happy living alone. I have a house that’s just big enough for me and my dog, and I don’t need to add to that. When he moves on, he moves on, and that’s fine.” _

_ “That’s both sad and refreshingly honest. Just enjoying each other’s company, then? For however long it lasts?” _

_ “Something like that.” _ Hank had a smile in his voice when he replied, and Connor’s thirium pump lurched in his chest. He disconnected but immediately from Hank’s earwig, wishing he could disappear off the face of the planet.

***

“You know something, Henry?” Ms Wells, Erin, told him, waving her fork at him in well-meaning little circles. The green olive at the business end of said fork looked like a very sad olive, indeed.

“I’m sure there’s a lot I don’t know, Erin. Enlighten me.”

“The way he looks at you, I don’t think he’s going anywhere soon. It’s what you’re here for, right?”

Hank pushed his green beans around on the plate, not knowing what to say to that. But he needn’t worry, Wells had him covered.

“To improve your relationship? To make things work better? Now you tell me why he’d come along for a weekend of romance and education if he wasn’t planning to stick around. Was it his idea or yours?”

Hank shook his head, mind swimming with question marks. She could easily have been reading too much into it, given the context of the conference. Or, the more terrifying alternative, she  _ had _ seen something in the way Connor looked at him, and she was right. Hank scrambled to tell a lie. It came easily enough. “I think I brought it up first, or he saw the ad in the newsfeeds, or… I don’t know. We both thought it could be...fun? No, that’s him.”

Erin smiled at him, giving him a gentle nudge. “He’s taking notes. Now you’d better figure out if you wanna revise that statement about you and your dog, or he’s going to slip through your fingers.”

***

They didn’t meet again until the second half of the afternoon, when McElroy stepped in to fill in for a guest speaker who’d had to cancel at the last minute. They were an experienced speaker, with a vast repertoire on the topic of relationships. Tonight’s topic was power dynamics on a romantic context.

“You didn’t answer my texts, Con,” Hank whispered to him, feeling concerned.

“I did,” Connor replied, in clipped, curt tones. He’d barely looked at him at all since his return. Hank was beginning to worry something bad had happened. Hurtful or upsetting, maybe.

“You said you were busy. What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

There was no use. Connor was stone-walling him, and stayed silent until, once again, McElroy opened up for another Q&A. Connor’s hand went up like a lightning rod, and the mic drone hovered along, settling above him. “I don’t get it,” he said, and Hank’s heart sank through his chest to the center of the planet.

“Could you elaborate?” McElroy asked, the epitome of patience.

“If two people meet almost all the requirements you talked about in your keynote speech about a functional relationship, and if monetary inequality is something you can work through, and you can have a relationship where power dynamics shift, as long as you respect each other, recognize and treat each other as equals-- I don’t see how that’s supposed to help. How’s that supposed to tell anyone if they’re a good match for someone?”

The audience murmured, some amused, some perplexed. Most of them were already in some form of relationship: why ask something so trivial? But Hank’s throat clenched with phantom pangs of emotion. It almost sounded like Connor was talking about them.

“It isn’t…” said McElroy. “Connor, was it? My area of expertise is on how to improve pre-existing relationships, and all relationships are different. If you’re unsure about your compatibility, then perhaps there are some areas you need to work on, after all.”

***

Dinner was torture, plain and simple. They sat across from each other, but the magic from the night before was gone, dispersed into the air around them. Gone with the wind. Hank had lost his appetite this morning and it hadn’t come back since, but he made an effort to shove  _ something _ into his mouth. Anything to keep from talking, or from looking up only to see Connor staring down at his own plate. Picking at bits of food with his fork, lifting things for a sniff, then putting them back down. If it was all an act, he’d be up for an Academy Award - Hank thought, uncharitably, and regretted it the second the thought crossed his mind. Because...what if it wasn’t all an act, and Connor was struggling to get a hold of all these new emotions. Not like it’d be the first time an android got overwhelmed by suddenly grasping the concept of  _ feelings _ . Not as if it wasn’t difficult enough for humans, who prided themselves on being the OGs of emotion. Hank couldn’t just sit there and be a complete ass about it, whatever was going on.

He chewed through the last bit of whatever he was eating (tasted like chicken, probably wasn’t) and put down his fork and knife, giving Connor a long, hard look. “Talk to me, Connor. What’s going on?”

Across the table, his partner’s bottom lip jutted out, then thinned as his mouth stretched sideways. “Nothing. This weekend’s proving very educational. I’m processing new data.”

“Alright…” Processing new data.  _ Right _ . And Hank was learning to speak binary. “Anything you wanna share about your seminar? What was it about, problem solving with Mr Tall, Blond and Fabulous?”

The lines of Connor’s carefully crafted body aligned just so. He seemed taller by an inch, easy. “ _ Mr Ellis _ was there, yes. As a participant.”

“Uhuh. Just another guy trying to make himself a better partner, find the perfect match. He doesn’t currently have anyone, right?”

“What are you doing?”

The question caught him off guard - or rather, set his hackles right up. As if Connor didn’t have a clue. As if he couldn’t figure out that Hank had seen them over the CCTV link he set up. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just curious. You and Ellis hit it off? Money wouldn’t be an issue with someone like him, and I’m sure he’s more than able and willing in the boot-knocking department. If you’re ticking all the boxes McElroy threw atcha yesterday, by all means. Go. Have fun. Chase your dream lover, live a little. I wish you all the best.”

People at the other tables were starting to stare, and were they in for a treat: dinner  _ and _ a show. Connor’s fork clattered to the plate, and if Hank had ever wondered if all the color could drain from an android’s face while still maintaining its synthetic skin membrane, he got his answer now. Connor stared at him, pale as a ghost save for two twin blotches of angry pink spreading all the way down his neck. That wasn’t just the look of shock. Connor was furiously offended, and Hank was about to find out exactly how deeply.

“Who… _ are you _ ?! Who are  _ you _ to talk to me like that? Are you blind?”

Hank blinked, opened his mouth to answer, but Connor cut him off. He was livid, voice raising with every outraged exclamation, and he was standing up, leaning on the table. “Don’t answer that! You stupid,  _ stupid man _ , WHO DO YOU THINK I AM TO YOU?! Did you lose your brain somewhere, did you misplace it?”

Hank had never seen the full scope of Connor’s authority before. He’d never heard him bark at a trio of suspected deviants in a break room. Never would he have imagined he’d find himself at the wrong end of Connor’s unbridled  _ fury _ .

“Connor--” he said, swallowing against a panicked bobbing of the larynx. “Honey…”

“ _ Don’t you call me that,  _ YOU DON’T GET TO CALL ME THAT!  _ I HEARD YOU WITH THE WELLS WOMAN, YOU’D BE JUST AS HAPPY IF I WERE  _ **_GONE_ ** _! _ ”

The restaurant was so silent after that final outburst that you could hear a pin drop. Connor stood there, pale and flushed at the same time, mouth pressed into a thin line. All out of steam, he smoothed the front of his shirt, and reached up to neaten his tie. Hank had never felt like such a lowlife, not for as long as he’d lived.

“Connor… Please. I--”

One long index finger shut him right up, just pointed at him. And then he left, leaving Hank at the table with his face ice cold and on fire at the same time.

***

The nerve. The gall. All the internal organs of that man could not explain what had just happened. Connor found refuge in one of the restrooms, blissfully empty, but it was a poor excuse for a sanctuary. He paced up and down the length of the four sinks and corresponding length of mirror, and he. Was. Shaking. He’d never experienced tremors since the day he was assembled, but now he couldn’t make them stop. He shook like an earthquake, and not even wrapping his arms around himself helped matters. Quite the opposite: for every lap of pacing he caught a glance of himself in the mirrors, and every time he was looking at the door. Waiting for what? For Hank to come after him, like some Hollywood cliché? Wrap his arms around him, say it was all one, big misunderstanding, say he was sorry? Not gonna happen. He’d seen to that. Obliterated the human, in public, completely disintegrated him in the eyes of everyone else. He’d probably hide away somewhere, like their hotel room, and empty the minibar. It  _ was _ Hank’s favorite medicine, to cure all ailments. Stupid-- ignorant--  _ blind _ \--! He realized with a great deal of alarm that he seemed to be springing a leak. His lungs were malfunctioning, too. Somewhere along the way the internal pressure must have become too much, and now he was literally going to pieces, torn apart from the inside by great, heaving sobs.

Just then, there was a knock on the door of the restroom, and a familiar but unwanted voice spoke up from behind it. “ _ It’s me. Sean? How you holding up in there? That was quite something. Force of nature, you are! _ ”

“Go to Hell!”

“ _ Alright, sorry,  _ Jesus _ … I’m sorry about this morning, I was a grade A jerk, but I’m not all bad. I couldn’t let you storm off after that performance and not come check if you’re okay. _ ”

Connor looked at himself in the mirror, and couldn’t recognize the absolute wreck staring back. Maybe Ellis was the last person he expected to come check on him...but he wasn’t the last person he wanted to see. He sniffed, hugged himself tighter. “The door’s open. Satisfy your curiosity, and then you can leave.”

But contrary to expectations, Ellis didn’t come in like a knight in shining armor, or someone hoping to catch Connor on the rebound. He took one look at him, and his face changed from impressed to compassionate. “Oh, dear. Not okay at all, are we?”

Connor shook his head, but then his bottom lip started shivering again, and there was no stopping it.

“Oh, you poor thing. Aw, jeez. Here.” Ellis pressed a silk handkerchief into his hands. “How about we get some fresh air? Huh? Come on. Wipe those tears, handsome, he doesn’t deserve them. Chin up, chest out, deep breaths. Let’s go somewhere else. There’s a ‘round the clock coffee shop just across the street, we can sit there and, I dunno,  _ not  _ talk for a while.”

Connor swallowed against a lump in his throat that defied all laws of physics. He wasn’t designed for this, it shouldn’t be possible. But the promise of being elsewhere, even just for a little while… “Okay.”

“Yeah? Excellent.” Ellis smiled at him. Everything about him seemed nicer when he’d checked his ego at the door. “Let’s go.”

And they did.

***

Hank, on the other hand, was a creature of habit. As pathetic as he knew it was, he found himself nursing his second double Scotch within ten minutes in the fancy hotel lounge. He was on the phone with Fowler, but not strictly as his commanding officer. He needed to hear the voice of a friend, and he counted Fowler among the best of them.

_ “I gotta tell you, Hank… I haven’t heard you sounding this miserable in a long time. This really hit you hard, didn’t it?” _

“I don’t know,” said Hank, feeling a lot like his younger self, back when feelings were a mystery and finding words for them was an impossible task, and he couldn’t figure out why someone didn’t love him back. Not much had changed since then. He still felt like a teenager when matters of the heart were concerned. He’d been with Cole’s mom for so long, before they split up, and he hadn’t really...wanted to be with anybody else. Who could he possibly meet that would hold a candle to the finest woman in the world? That they didn’t work out, that they couldn’t stay together after Cole, well… That didn’t mean they didn’t still love each other, in a non-romantic, very much platonic, friendly way. She’d moved on, found somebody new, and all was well with the world. It’s just… Hank grew comfortable in the house, with Sumo, with their routines (or lack thereof). He was perfectly happy, being miserable. Until the day he wasn’t, anymore. Not entirely miserable, anymore. Looking forward to tomorrow, if it meant having Connor around.

“I don’t know if it was all some elaborate act, or...if he meant it. Any of it. Why he asked those questions. Why he blew up at me.”

_ “Alright,” _ Fowler said, cool as a cucumber on the other end of the call.  _ “What scares you more - that it was all an act, or that our favorite Terminator has feelings for you? And don’t say you don’t know.” _

“I don’t fuckin’ know, okay? Fuck, Jeff. How come you’re so calm about this? I expected shouting. Lots of it.”

_ “What do you want me to say? That the android who’s had more of a positive input on your life than any of your friends combined, in little over a month of knowing you--. Just because he’s an android, I’m gonna start spouting some sort of bigoted nonsense about mixed species relationships?” _

Hank groaned, and tossed back the entire glass. “ _ Mixed species _ !” He hissed, keeping his voice down but cursing like a pirate.

_ “It’s no big deal, Hank. Not to me, and if anyone on my team thinks it’s a big deal, they can take it up with me. Just-- wrap this up, and get back safe. You can figure it all out. Later. Now go find him, talk to him. Get back to work.” _

So much for hiding in a dark corner until it all went away. Time to face the music. “Right away, Sir.”

_ “And Hank?” _

As gruff as Fowler was, as a Captain, his heart was in the right place. Hank couldn’t help a slanted grin at the tone of his voice. “Yeah, Jeff?”

_ “Don’t do anything stupid. I’m not paying you for that shit.” _

“Bye, Jeff.”

He ended the call, and stood up, ready to go do the right thing, wherever it may lead. He left enough bills to cover the tip, set his tumbler on the stack of money, and looked up to thank the bartender - but he was nowhere to be seen. It couldn’t be that late, could it? No last calls, nothing. Strange, he thought, and went to look around the corner, when suddenly a sharp, snapping kind of pain blossomed across the back of his head, like a red wine stain on white linen. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear a woman’s voice, agitated, but quiet. “What did you  _ do _ ?! Ferchrissakes--!”

Stars danced before his eyes, dotted with black spots that grew and grew until there was nothing left but the dark.

***

At the coffee shop across the street, Connor was blissfully unaware that anything was wrong. For all the thousands upon thousands of likely future events he’d calculated, that Hank would find himself in grave danger through sheer, dumb luck, was not one of them. There was that, and the fact he didn’t want to consider Hank at all in his current state of mind. Ellis, for all his self-importance, turned out to be just what he needed - someone who could talk forever about the most nonsensical things, like fashion and celebrity gossip and who was entangled with whom at the conference and hotel; and through deliberately not talking about the elephant in the room, made things better. Or, perhaps not things, such as they were - but he made Connor feel better. The emotional upheaval faded away, leaving him feeling both calmer and horrible. They were supposed to be professionals, and here he was, letting his own emotions sabotage things. Good thing it didn’t strike anyone as suspicious.

“I...have never done anything like that before,” Connor admitted, after Ellis was all out of stories, and they’d settled into a lull of companionable quiet.

“Ah,” said Ellis, and gave him a Knowing Look - and Connor recognized it as such. “He must be quite something, then. For that kind of…” he mimed an explosion, complete with sound effects. Connor chuckled. It was certainly an apt description.

“He is. There’s no one else like him. But I… I’ve had some...issues, correctly reading people. Situations. So much of human interaction is contextual, and…” Human interaction? Not the right phrasing if he didn’t want to give himself away. Connor shook his head; Ellis didn’t seem to notice his slip-up.

“You’re not always sure of where you stand with him? Or, if he’s as invested as you are?”

“I second guess myself constantly. And he’s not-- I’m-- Neither one of us are very...verbal, when it comes to…”

Ellis grinned at his awkward gesture, denoting ‘feelings’. “In that case, I think you know exactly what you need to work on. Am I right, or am I right?”

He wasn’t  _ too  _ bad, once he dropped the poster boy act. And, arrogant or not, he  _ was _ right. Connor nodded, and thanking him for the coffee (he hadn’t so much as touched), he got to his feet. “I should get to it. Goodnight, Mr Ellis.”

“Goodnight, Mr Stern.”

###  Sunday

It was just past midnight when Connor crossed the street back to the hotel, checking his 3D map of the place for the location of Hank’s cell. Unsurprisingly, the GPS marker was in the bar overlooking the waters, but Connor didn’t care where he was, as long as he found him wide awake and sober enough to talk to. The troubling thing was, the bar was closed. No lights on, save for the wall sconces along the seating area, and no immediate sign of Hank. Just the olfactory compounds of his combined hygienic routine. The aftershave stood out the most. And the smell of fresh blood. Connor brought up his 3D grid, scanning the room for clues as to what happened, while simultaneously running a check on the phone records going in and out of the hotel (no 911 calls in the past hour) and checking hospital registers for any Henry Ackers or Hank Andersons (nothing): Hank’s phone on the floor between one of the sleek, modern lounge seats and the bar; his money on the table, a glass with his fingerprints on it; a wine bottle on its side in the corner, tucked behind a pillar. Traces of blood and silvery, gray strands of hair. And the blood stain, not far from the bar itself. He kneeled by the stain, pressed his first two digits to the still wet stain, and tapped the trace evidence to the tip of his tongue. It was as he suspected. Hank’s blood. He had been assaulted by person or persons unknown.

Pushing to his feet, Connor tapped his right temple where the LED used to be. He started following the blood trail, leading to the service corridor.  _ “All units, this is Connor,” _ he broadcast over his wireless connection to dispatch, not needing to speak out loud,  _ “the RK800 working with the DPD under Captain Jeffrey Fowler of Central Station. Officer under attack at Seaside Hotel, send an ambulance. I have a crime scene that needs securing at the Seaside Hotel lounge, am in pursuit of suspected assailant. Requesting backup and CSU. I repeat: all units - officer under attack, send bus. Am in pursuit of unsub. Requesting backup and CSU.” _

He picked up the pace, refreshing the grid at every five feet, not at all surprised when not even thirty seconds later, Captain Jeffrey Fowler called him up, barking out questions.  _ “Connor! Where’s Hank? What’s going on?” _

_ “Unclear, Sir. I’m uploading the crime scene to the DPD database as we speak. Hank was hit in the head with a wine bottle at the bar of the hotel. Currently tracking a blood trail leading down the service corridor behind the bar. I estimate a minimum of two suspects: he wasn’t dragged, but judging by the force of the blow and the amount of blood on the primary crime scene he’s most likely unconscious or unable to stand. I’m attempting to connect to his earwig, but it seems to be offline.” _

_ “Jesus Christ,” _ muttered Fowler.  _ “I’m on my way. Go! Find the bastards!” _

_ “Yes, Captain. I fully intend to.” _

***

Static in his ear, loud, whining screeches filling his head, and voices-- angry voices yelling and hissing at each other somewhere very far away… What do, how to do it, and why? How smart of someone, how bright, sarcasm oozing out of the walls - and something about beards, or not-beards, and the news.

_...Hank Anderson… _

_ ...Detroit Police... _

He recognized his own name, but it didn’t seem to carry all that much weight in the here and now. It’s just a name, what could it possibly do? He felt heavy and cold, but more relaxed than in...however long it was since he’d been this relaxed. He couldn’t remember a time when he felt so heavy, and so cold, and so ready to sleep and never open his eyes again.

If only his head didn’t hurt so bad. If only his ear wasn’t filled with static and crackling and distressed, computer-y noises.

_ “Hank!” _

More distressed noises. He tried lifting his eyebrows, hoping that they might take his eyelids with them. It’d be nice to see something aside from the dark. It could all be a bad dream. Or a hangover - that’s prolly it: the mother of all hangovers, and the tv on in the living room.

_ “Hank! Can you hear me!?” _

“--jeebus cripes…” He blinked, but his eyes felt glued stuck. He could barely get them open - but his mumbled curse was enough for that voice in his ear. It was… It was… “...con-nor? ... _ hi _ …” It’s Connor! That realization filled him with warmth unlike any other, though he couldn’t figure out why it was so important to hear his voice again. Even if he sounded mad. “...yer not mad at me, righ-...right? what’d I do?”

The other voices came closer, someone jostling him by the arm. A man, by the sound of it. “Fuck! Now he’s rambling! What are we goin’ to do?!”

A woman replied, somewhere further off to the side. “You should’ve thought about that before you clobbered him half to death, you incompetent little shit! What did I tell you about this? No ripples!”

“No ripples, I know, but you gotta believe me, it’s him! It’s got to be him! Just look at the comparison! It’s a 97% match!”

“I don’t care about some stupid celebrity lookalike  _ app _ on your  _ phone _ , Lee! This is  _ not _ how I run this business!”

Hank blinked his eyes open...or tried to. With the way his face was pressed to the floor, it was easier to just open one, and try to hone in on the voices. He recognized the bartender, but he never would’ve thought he’d see a friendly face standing in the corner, completely morphed into someone else. Ms Erin Wells, the one and only. 

Then Connor told him, whispering directly into his ear like a secret, to stay right where he was. He was coming in.

“...got it,” murmured Hank, and seconds after, the door to the storage room flew off its hinges, and everybody (well, twobody) started screaming. Hank supposed they’d never met a furious killer robot out to get them, before. That’d make anyone shit their pants.

***

Later, at the nearest hospital, Fowler reflected on the wonders of life. He’d seen more horrors of the human world than he cared to ever admit. He’d been on tours overseas several times over; he’d seen unimaginable cruelty abroad as well as on his home turf. Didn’t matter where you went, you’d always find bad people in worse situations. Ruthless killers, abusers, thieves and liars - to the point where you thought there could be no humanity left in the world. And then you’d catch sight of a child smiling, or random acts of kindness, or people who defy the horrors they face in order to do good. You saw it all here, right here in the waiting room. It was a microcosm of the human condition. He’d sat in the waiting room countless times in his life - but this was the first occasion he sat with an android winding down from shock, helping him clean his hands.

“I know he’ll be fine, Captain. You don’t need to do that, I can manage.”

“I know. But I got this. One more go, and then you can tell me if I missed anything.”

It wasn’t every day that he sat next to someone who had saved his best friend from sheer stupidity. Stupidity and a nasty, bleeding bump to the head. It was always the head wounds, wasn’t it. Bleeders. Hank had looked like death warmed over once the EMTs wheeled him out of there. Blood all over, nothing but Connor’s knitted cardigan to staunch the blood. Concussion, they’d said, and a bunch of other things Fowler wasn’t quite able to process. Hank needed to be thoroughly checked out, and kept under observation. That was the gist of it, as he understood it, and...here they were. The least he could do was help the guy clean his hands while he stopped shaking.

“There. How’d I do?”

Connor turned his hands over, 180 degrees one way, 180 the other. “Adequately. Thank you, Captain.”

Fowler nodded, and set down the bowl with the wipes. “How’re you holding up? Bullet holes...healed up? I don’t know what the correct term is.”

“‘It’s just a flesh wound’?” Connor aimed at a smile, and almost made it. “They’ve healed. Ms Wells’s aim didn’t count on android anatomy. She missed all major biocomponents.”

Biological, artificial… Life, period. Good people came in all shapes and sizes...and casings. That’s all that mattered to Fowler. Later still, when Hank was officially out of the woods but still sedated, Fowler asked Connor to stay with him while he got back to the station. They had all the evidence they needed: the android had already uploaded his statement to the database, and they could get Hank’s later.

“I’ll be back in the morning, okay? Call me if… If you need anything?”

Connor gave him a slow nod, and sat by Hank’s bedside. Fowler shut the door, and looking in one last time through the window, he saw something that made him smile. It was Connor’s hand, wrapping around Hank’s. (Little did he know that Connor had a lot on his mind, and would have the rest of the night to calculate statistical probability trees.) The wonders of life, indeed. 

***

It goes without saying, but when Hank finally woke up from his medically induced naptime some fourteen hours later, he was not a happy camper. Not only was last night one blurry mess, but he knew for a fact he had been a total asshole (maybe), and Connor had never been so angry with him for as long as they’d known each other (absolutely, and wow, did it feel like a lifetime). The last thing he remembered was calling Fowler to tell him it was the worst idea of the decade to send him and Connor in, posing as a couple. That was awkward. Telling your best friend (and Captain) in so many coded words that you couldn’t distinguish your own feelings for your (android) partner from those of their cover identities. Even more awkward when Fowler didn’t even care, he just went “interspecies love, yay!”...and “fix this” and “get back to work”.

And to make matters worse, there was a possibility that maybe Connor wasn’t just pretending, and their fight wasn’t all fake, but a  _ fight _ fight. They’d have to talk - neither of their strong suites, to be fair - and he was not looking forward to it. Although, it would be a lot easier if he hadn’t left, first thing that morning.

“He said he’d be back,” Fowler reassured him for the nth time, as Hank was getting dressed in the bathroom. “Like the Terminator.”

Bad analogy: wrong killer robot from the future. “What’s that make me? Sarah Connor?”

“Sure makes you something!”

“I like Sarah,” Hank retorted, meaning every word of it. “She’s badass, strong, brave. I could be Sarah.”

“Not with that face.”

Jokes aside, Hank pulled the DPD sweater over his head, thinking it sure didn’t sound like he was describing himself. More like he was describing his partner. Kickass, know-it-all, sweetest guy around. Determined, committed, dedicated, cheeky, brash at times, and...innocent in some ways, too experienced in others. But wasn’t it like that for everyone? Maybe it wasn’t so much about where you started from, but what you worked towards. And if he’d meant what he said about them meeting all the requirements for a functional, fulfilling relationship… Then there was a chance - and Hank had to take it. Tomorrow. He’d tell him, tomorrow. They’d talk, and… Yeah. Just had to find the right moment for it.

***

One definite perk of the RK800’s design was that it was built to move, and move fast. Connor could calculate paths, trajectories (in case of throwing himself from one building to the next: not applicable in this instance; or avoiding bullets: also not applicable), inclination of the ground, wind speed - and he could  _ leg it _ when he had to. And he had to run, because he’d had all night to think things over, to go over every scrap of data collected from the case, from their surveillance, including every last microsecond that Hank had spent with Ms Wells. He didn’t need audio to know what they were saying when he had CCTV footage from several angles, and he could read lips. He knew everything, and armed with that knowledge, he had calculated the future, and concluded that the safest route was also the one that would yield the least mutually beneficial results. He had to take a risk. He had to ‘force the moment to its crisis’, the way TS Eliot had put it. Connor had never appreciated poetry, but there was something about that poem that suddenly made sense.

He skidded through the visitors entrance and dashed the rest of the way to Hank’s room, heart pounding and lungs strained with a certain kind of tension that had nothing to do with breathing, and everything to do with being alive. He burst through the door without knocking, nearly causing Fowler to choke on his fifth cup of coffee of the day - and Hank, standing in the doorway to the adjacent bathroom, in DPD issue sweatpants and a sweater, his hair a mess, and a black eye from when he was knocked out cold, and he had never looked more beautiful.

“Hank! Hi!”

“...hello,” Hank replied through an awkward looking smile. “You’re...chipper today.”

“Yes. No. I’m resolute. Hank,” he said, trying to bring his own grin down a few pegs, but the damn software seemed to be glitching. “We need to talk. But first, I need to say something.”

Fowler’s eyes went big as saucers, moving between the two of them, and he excused himself quickly, saying he’d go check about the release forms. It was probably for the best. It was very probable (99.9%) that Hank wouldn’t want an audience for this. This was their moment, even if Fowler was dragging his feet outside the door, as Connor’s 3D imaging software informed him.

He took out a small box from the inside pocket of his jacket, and held it out for Hank. It was small, rectangular, plain white. A gift box most commonly associated with jewelry. He didn’t want Hank to get the wrong idea about the contents. “I thought about waiting until Christmas, but I don’t see the point of waiting. This needs to happen now.”

Hank’s eyes were terribly bright, turning misty and confused at the same time. “What? What is th-- What are you doing?”

“Open it.”

Hank’s hands trembled as he opened the little white box, but Connor brought his hands to his wrists, to steady him. Inside was a length of sterling silver chain, looped through a vividly blue disc. Hank gave a shivering gasp when he realized what it was. “It’s your LED!”

“I want you to have it. You’re the only one who doesn’t need to look at it to read me.”

“I don’t understand. It’s yours. It’s part of who you are, you’ve never removed it, not ever.”

Not before this case, no. He’d had his reasons, but had his reasons for this, too. He picked up the chain, opened the clasp and brought it around Hank’s neck, and pressed his hand over the flat disc, right over Hank’s heart.

“I wouldn’t be who I am today, if not for you…” he said, not exactly stalling, but waiting for the right words to magically appear before him. “I want you to have it,  _ because _ it’s a part of me. Because I want it to remind you that I’ll love you forever, whether or not you feel the same way. I think you do.”

Hank’s hands moved aimlessly, not knowing what to do about the box, or Connor’s hands on his chest, or the gift. He was close to tears, but paradoxically enough it was the happiest Connor had ever seen him. Hank nodded, and Connor went on.

“I know we won’t have forever. I know. But it would make me the happiest living thing in the world if I could spend the rest of your life with you. If you’d let me.”

“If I’d  _ let you _ ?!” Hank exclaimed, torn between laughter and tears. “God!  _ Holy shit! _ If I’d let you? You’re stuck with my geriatric ass! Gray hair, tooth gap, scars, all of it! It’s yours!”

“Yeah?” Connor could feel that grin coming back in full force. “Even your belly? I love your belly.”

“Ugh, alright. You want it, you can have it,” Hank chuckled, his voice wet and wobbly with emotion. “Even the belly.”

It was a deal. Connor had taken a leap of faith and traded something significant with Hank for something he didn’t know was already his. Their hearts were compatible, and they did tick  _ almost  _ all of the boxes of the relationship wheel. They could work on the rest. For the time being, it was enough to bask in the warmth of each other’s newfound happiness, and pull one another into the first few kisses of what would amount to thousands. Outside, Fowler and one of the nurses joined in a celebratory dance. All was, at long last, well with the world: everything else could wait.

The End


End file.
